at bled beneath the
pack-straps, was a much more difficult matter. Weston, her camp
attendant, had done all these things, and, as very frequently
happened, had so far gained nothing by them. She was glad that he had
done them, for the pride of a colonizing people was strong in her,
but, after all, that was not why she loved him. Indeed, it was rather
hard to find a reason for the latter fact. The only thing that
mattered was that she admitted it, and now she was wondering, with an
almost torturing anxiety, whether there would be any news of him in
the next issue of _The Colonist_.

Laying aside the paper, she looked out on the city, which stretched
away before her, with its roofs and spires and towers clear in the
evening light, toward the great gleaming river; but, fair as the
prospect was, her thoughts sped back to the shadowy forests and
towering ranges of the Pacific Slope. As they did so, her eyes grew
curiously soft, for when she had last looked upon those snow-barred
heights the camp-packer had been at her side. Then she turned with a
sudden start and a swift rush of blood to her face as a maid
announced, "Mr. Weston."

It was, however, a moment or two before the man came in, and she was
then mistress of herself, and it was reassuring to know that if there
was anything dramatic in his appearance at that particular time he was
evidently unaware of it. In fact, he entered the room as though he had
left it just on the previous day, and, taking her hand, merely held it
for perhaps a second longer than was absolutely necessary. Then he sat
down and inquired after her health and Stirling's, at which Ida, who
could not help it, laughed. She did not like effusiveness, but this
conventional formality seemed to her singularly out of place, until
she remembered that she had once or twice already found the
matter-of-fact quietness with which the man made his appearance and
went away again almost disconcerting. If this had been the result of
affectation it would have been provocative, but, as Ida was aware, it
seldom occurred to the man that anybody else was greatly interested in
his doings. She felt, however, that he might have made an exception of
her.

"Where have you come from now?" she asked.

Weston named a hotel of repute in that city, and, though this was not
the information Ida had desired, she favored him, unobserved, with a
glance of careful scrutiny. He was attired for once like a prosperous
man, in garments